If We Were A Band

If we were a band, no major label would sign us. Like a bunch of one-legged, leprosy-stricken buskers, we would be shunned by all top executives and producers. They would probably find some of our tunes fairly nice and could even sing along to one or two, but in the large scheme of things – well, the big guys just wouldn’t be bothered. Small record labels wallowing in obscurity – now you’re talking.

If we were a band, what kind of music would we play? Rock, pop, soft jazz? I don’t know – I guess it would be bluegrass with a messy sound masquerading for lo-fi aesthetics. Fiddle, guitar, mandolin, Dobro, upright bass – in fact, everything except the five-string banjo (which we wouldn’t have). But since one instrument doesn’t make all the difference and its absence wouldn’t quite make it glam-rock or something, the sound would still be there. Muddy, muffled, but what the heck.

If we were a band, we wouldn’t be too good at our instruments. However, we would be quite capable of keeping a steady rhythm going. Completely unintentionally, we would be punks as they were meant to be. When in front of an audience, we would be shoegazers. When it comes to fans, we would be a Baptist choir.

If we were a band, we wouldn’t rehearse. We just wouldn’t have time for that. We would be too busy doing the real stuff. The real stuff is the only practice you need – or that’s what our manager would say anyway.

If we were band, we would have none of that fake bonhomie. Hanging out backstage with other bands or patting each other on the back after another successful outing. “You are like a real family to me, guys”. “How is Alice?” “The drinks are on me”. “No, you were good, Johnny, you were really good”. No, we wouldn’t say any of that bullshit, we would be telling it like it is.

If we were a band, would we tour? What venues would be play? Same as with major labels, I don’t believe huge stadiums and arenas would be banging on our doors. Though maybe once in a while our manager would be able to provide us with a glimpse of something bigger than a cheap cabaret circuit.

If we were a band, we wouldn’t be writing original material. We would rely on the older stuff, because it’s the traditional, well-proved, ever-green classics that can never fail you. So that this whole bluegrass thing would come in handy.

If we were a band, we wouldn’t take drugs.

If we were a band, we would never call it quits. We would be going strong against all rumours, logic and odds. You’d be gone or going, dead or dying, but we would still be around – like an impotent, misogynistic poet who is never quite done with his deeply romantic lines and rhymes.

I also wonder: if we were a band, could we possibly be a brass band? There’s no easy answer to that, but then… Since we can blow, I guess we could.

A War Against Cliché

How are you supposed to say anything these days?

Last time you went to a party, there were conversations going on in different parts of the room. For instance, they were talking about art. Not something you would pass up after a timely, nourishing glass of white wine and the general feeling of joviality.

Ah! They are discussing impressionists, so you are eagerly joining in.

- Monet, – you chirp in. – Claude Monet is what it is all about.

And suddenly the faces of some of your interlocutors look distorted by boredom and thinly veiled contempt. You may not realise it yet, but you’ve just said The Beatles. Shakespeare. Beethoven. Jesus Christ. You have just been trapped by a cliché. Because what kind of man would mention that Claude Monet is his favourite artist during a discussion of the Impressionists?..

So next time you are well prepared, and you are not going to blow it.

- How about Monet? – you ask, disdainfully. – Does anyone still like that one?

And once again – boredom and contempt, and quite possibly from the very same people. You are losing another fight against cliché, because you’ve just said “Yesterday” is sappy and Hamlet is a rip-off. It’s too easy and trite – trying to make a point by dwarfing a giant.

So what are you supposed to do? How are you supposed to say anything? Some say you can beat it by just ignoring the fact that what you think, say or do might be a cliché, and just go ahead with your thoughts, words and whatever it is that you do. But in that case you will just end up an obscure non-entity, a bastard child that posterity won’t adopt even out of compassion. I believe that it was Martin Amis who once gave the most brilliant piece of advice that a young writer could ever hope to hear: never write a sentence that absolutely anyone can write. You really have to give that one a good thought.

But why all the trouble? Why the hypocrisy? Why can’t you just be sincere and honestly state your preferences? Well, sincerity is of course nice and sweet, but in a polite and intelligent company it’s not enough to say that you just bloody love Monet. That is really not much of a smart remark; actually, that’s not much of a remark at all! You would have to add something to that. Like Monet’s childhood sketches are the real deal. Or that according to some experts he was a gay. Or that you really like Monet, but that Manet guy was a fraud, a real waste of brushes and canvases. You would need some rare and preferably bizarre fact from Claude Monet’s biography. Some knowledge, you see. Some wit.

But perhaps it’s getting quite complicated at this point. So why not just keep silent and listen to what the others say? Well, but then of course: silence is the biggest, most blatant cliché of all.  

BEFORE WE REACHED FLORENCE

- Mary, – I said. – How did you like Rome?

My eyes got all jumpy and jittery from the road, so I put away the book and turned to my fiancée. Mary had all but given up hope of falling asleep, and was presently aimlessly acquainting herself with the rather dull scenery dragging along outside. It was one of those old-fashioned bus trips through Europe where you are equally frustrated and amused. Frustrated – because of uneven food, uneven sleep and uneven toilets, and amused – because Venice is still worth it regardless of the drowsiness or the sorry state of your bladder.

In fact, Italy was magnificent. Rome was the first city on the itinerary, and despite the drizzle and the relentless time limit, I was duly impressed by the sights and by the women – I really couldn’t tell which were sexier. And now, with the gaping neighbours and dusty bus windows closing in on me, I decided to invoke some of that enthusiasm. The thought of Rome’s playful freedom got me into a playful mood, so here was the deal: if Mary said a bad word about that city (and how could she?), I would break off the engagement.

- Rome? – said Mary. – You mean honestly?

- Sure.

- Quite honestly, rather boring. – And, as if to prove her point, she sighed all over my face. Slovenly, with no subtlety or tact. There was this distinct smell of a particularly bad cheese sandwich on her breath. The one we had bought the previous day in a cheap roadside café greasy with petrol and bored customers.

My excitement cut short, I felt like I choked on a shot of expensive red wine (quite possibly Italian).

- Mary, tell me you are joking.   

She wouldn’t. Mary was dead serious (she rarely joked, and I couldn’t blame her: women can only be funny for no particular reason and without actually realizing that). What was more, she gave me a scornful sideline glance that I kept refusing to get used to  –  and, for the record, have kept doing it since. Because frankly, coming from my future wife, that was not too encouraging. 

And now I was so overwhelmed by her words that I couldn’t find a retort strong enough. Also, there was this secret deal I’d made prior to asking my question. Surely I had no intention of dropping that. Even though by that point I had retained none of my initial playfulness. None at all.

- Bullshit! Bullshit, Mary! What exactly did you find so boring about Rome? The streets, the people, the statues, the air, the what? Tell me it was atrocious or disgusting, just don’t tell me it was boring. ‘Cause this is pathetic.

- Well, everything, really. – She disregarded everything except the question, which annoyed me. – Maybe not boring, but definitely nothing special. It’s all right, darling, it’s just my opinion.

She took my fingers in hers, as if that was all it would take to calm me down, but it only riled me even more. I jerked my arm away, indignantly.

- I’m breaking up with you. We’ve just been to one of the greatest, most spiritual places in the world, and your ignorance wouldn’t even let you admit as much. I’m telling you, that’s it. We’re through.

- Huh?..

Of course she couldn’t believe that. Even I couldn’t believe that, my words coming out like a bunch of terrified and terrifying aliens. But however infantile it might have seemed, getting worked up like that, my tone was harsh and left no room for misconception. Mary looked like she was gasping for air, like some beached fish. When in fact she was groping for words.

- Huh?.. What does it all mean?!? Just some goddamn city I didn’t like, and look at you!

- Goddamn city?

- Yeah, goddamn city! 

- We’re not getting married.

- We are not? I’m pregnant.

At first it sounded like an average hysterical point you would make in an argument you are not going to win anyway, but then suddenly everything inside turned sour, and I jumped out of my seat and bumped and staggered my way to the driver. It all happened in a flash. I said I wasn’t feeling well and needed to get out. The driver wasn’t too happy about that, but at the next filling station he did stop the bus.

It felt like I had to relieve myself or at least throw up, but nothing happened. My feet heavy and limp, I just walked around the place for five or ten minutes, irritating the other tourists waiting for me in the bus. I tried to think about Rome, but presently Rome didn’t make any sense. Just a blurry concoction of random streets, faces and buildings. What should I say to Mary?

While I was walking back through the narrow passage, overstuffed with sleeping legs and packets full of smelly leftovers, some husky male voice said: “Who the fuck do you think you are?” But I couldn’t care less.

When I got back, Mary was sleeping. She looked so cozy and content that I didn’t want to wake her up. But then a conversation was the last thing I needed at that moment. Instead, I just stared at her belly as if expecting something to happen. But nothing happened, and I gave up. I felt angry and confused. I felt lost. Frustrated, too, but not like a tourist: there was no feeling of amusement to reimburse the raging stomach or the uncomfortable seats. Perhaps the next city…

There were words in me, perhaps hundreds, millions of words, but they were an obscure, inarticulate mess. Like what was inside that belly of hers. I knew I wasn’t dreaming, and when I looked away it felt so much like switching off the Christmas tree when the celebrations are over. So: the next city. I examined the itinerary: well, Mary absolutely had to like that one.

I got back to my book. The Maugham short story was damn good, so I was ready to put some effort into getting used to the restless motion of the bus. Sheltered from thoughts, I had gone through that same story twice before we reached Florence.   

    

Demonstrations under my windows

They keep demonstrating under my windows. Draped in flags and slogans, they do something to my blood. They make it cold. So that I have to put on clothes, more clothes – every time it’s more clothes. I listen up, I take my pencil, I write it down. I don’t know why I bother, but it must be the words they shout. Each time their words are like a bite of ice-cream gushing and whooshing through my warm, comfortable, unprepared teeth. I busy myself with some odd writing. It’s good therapy. It stretches the muscles, it numbs the effect.

Every step of theirs is a step of a trespasser invading my private space. It makes my heart heavy, and I look around. My kids: are they safe? They are, beautiful and oblivious between screens and headphones, they won’t notice or hear a thing. For them, it’s all about Facebook friends, tight jeans and pop stars. The demonstration has nothing to do with them. And while we are at it, it has nothing to do with me either. Me? I just want my warmth back.

Gone are the days when you could just look out of the window sucking on an orange, watching telly or doing some abstract knitting. These days you have to pay attention. Which is annoying. When you are a teenager and something’s annoying, you are just annoyed. But when you are my age (48), and something’s annoying, you are not just annoyed: there’s also something about your lungs. About your heart. Some headache. Some kidney disorder. Something to consult your physician about. Something about your blood.

Also, this uncertainty. Win it, for God's sake. Win it, please. Win it. Or get lost.

In the meantime, I’m reduced to a sorry figure so reminiscent of an old spinsterish woman leaning against the wall, pricking up her ears and trying to discern the details of the hysterical row of the newly-weds. Still, I’m more than that: I’m writing it all down in my notebook. I’m keeping my secret diary: the slogans, the number of demonstrators, the exact date… There's no easy way to explain this, but I guess I’m not doing this for others. For once, I'm doing it for myself.

And then comes the snap, at the end of each day, when suddenly the whole thing ceases. I switch off the lights, roll down under my window-sill, and cover my eyes and ears with the palms of my hands. Outside there are screams, sounds of violence and apparently the sight of blood spurting out on the pavement and on the road. The raving hissing of cars means that the demonstration's well and truly over. 


I wish they stopped. I wish the goddamn demonstrators didn’t have to come tomorrow, for their own sake.

When it all quiets down a bit, and it does, somewhere around midnight, I start tearing off my clothes. I do that because I sincerely believe that I won't be needing them, now that another demonstration has gone astray. Deep down, there's a fear that they might arrest me – for I have this notebook full of bad letters and cold, uncomfortable words. My secret diary: something to arrest me for.

Also, even when it all quiets down to the point of total, undiluted silence, even at those rare moments: I’m not getting any warmer. I’m not. I'm just not.

Pornographic fantasia on Sarah Lucas

Sarah Lucas woke up one morning to find her room covered in genitalia. On first glance, the genitalia was all human, but as her eyes kept piercing through the fuzzy cobweb of recent sleep, Sarah could see that this was in fact not the case. The genitalia (and Sarah was quite an expert on the subject) was way too exotic, bizarre, inexplicable. Some of it could belong to porcupines, to giant hedgehogs, to unicorns, to creatures from Mars.

Sarah Lucas was greatly animated. Her first intention was to call the police, but it was soon replaced by another one: to call her manager and set up a London exhibition for next Sunday. In the end, she decided against both. Partly because all the sockets in her room now strongly resembled vaginas (which meant she could hardly plug in her discharged mobile phone) and partly because the moment she picked up her Blackberry from the bedside table, the Blackberry turned out to be a ridiculously huge penis with what seemed and felt like a monstrously stiff erection.

Sarah got out of bed. She wanted to believe that hers was a case of an extremely high postmodernist fever, but the more she familiarized herself with what insisted to be her room, the less it looked like some particularly fucked-up hallucination. Oddly, all was in place: the Oriental vase, her working tools, her hat, the beautiful disarray of her works – it’s just that by some divine or devilish will it had all turned overnight into this amazing mess of cocks and pussies. Sarah was again and again reminded of that typewriter scene in Cronenberg’s adaptation of Naked Lunch… The Oriental vase was a true sensation. To say that she had never seen (or, indeed, imagined) anything quite like that would have been a gross understatement. This was monumental, this could humble a mammoth.

She cast a heavy but already sleepless glance in the direction of her bed. Yes, that too. Jesus, what kind of female (bar Mother Earth, of course) could possess that?!

Did Sarah enjoy it all? Did she consider this… interesting, exciting, alluring? In some strange way she did. The whole thing looked kind of breathtaking, artsy and edgy to the point of total delirium. But there was some restless feeling, too. What if it wasn’t just this room of hers that had genitalia spread all over it? What about the kitchen? What about the forks and the cups? What if a saggy pair of walrus testicles was now hanging from the ceiling in every room of her apartment? Instead of her exquisite chandeliers? Her imagination kept painting the labialized toilet bowl. No, she couldn’t possibly bring herself to that. No way.

Sarah made her second move of the morning and immediately stepped onto something. She looked down. The strangely soft and inflated pencil ejaculated lavishly all over her bare feet. Now this was disgusting. What else was disgusting? Well, the fact that it was all her yesterday’s work. Her sculptures, her sketches, even a couple of still-life paintings. Ruined now, mutilated, gone, dead, turned real.

And then Sarah remembered something. Her drawings! Her childhood drawings were stuffed somewhere under her bed, and without thinking twice Sarah Lucas selflessly threw herself on the floor (which, thankfully, still looked like the floor). There was a long cancerous pause before Sarah reemerged with a dusty, yellow roll of paper.

- Intact, – uttered Sarah, trying to spread it open.

She couldn’t. In her very own hands, right there and then, the roll of paper was slowly but mercilessly turning itself into a ridiculously huge… banana.